


a cracked polystyrene man

by de_Clare



Category: MythBusters RPF
Genre: Adam’s neurotic, BDSM, Castles, Coercion, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Humiliation, Jamie’s a misanthrope, Low Self-Esteem, M/M, Mentions of Racism, Oral Sex, Possibly canon-compliant misogyny, Rough Oral Sex, Saved from archive closure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 23:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_Clare/pseuds/de_Clare
Summary: Kari sexually manipulates Adam. Adam loathes himself too much to care.I wrote this in 2008 and posted to a niche archive because ff.net didn’t accept explicit content or RPF. The archive is perilously close to being taken offline, so I’m saving to AO3.





	1. Chapter 1

Adam‘s been fucking around with Kari for a month now, which is a long time for Kari to fuck around with any one person. (Not to suggest that he‘s the only person she‘s been fucking.) But it‘s been so beautiful—and you know what they say about beautiful things: they‘re ephemeral.   
  
They grace your life with their presence, then leave a hole in you when they‘re torn out.   
  
Fucking Jamie. It‘s all his fault. He‘s only satisfied when Adam‘s miserable, so he must just be bloated with satisfaction now.   
  
But it‘s Kari‘s fault, too. Fucking tease. Acting like he‘s beneath her. Just this week‘s novelty to be used then thrown away with equal enthusiasm. But she‘s young. Just sowing her wild oats. He can‘t really blame her. He really is beneath her   
  
But that‘s what makes the sex so edifying. It‘s that feeling of stealing a taste of something destined for better men. Like hugging your older brother‘s football trophy to your chest, knowing that glory will never be yours, but happy to hold something tangible and imagine that you could. Adam could lose himself in those moments...Adam does lose himself in those moments.   
  
And not to mention, the sex was great. A terrible kind of great, which is always better than a conventional kind of great.   
  
Check this. The first time he and Kari fucked was on a sawdust-strewn workbench. It hurt Adam‘s knees, actually, to have his patellae pressed against the wood, with nothing but a thin sheet of skin to cushion it. But he was so horny. It‘s not like he didn‘t care. Actually, he cared a lot. He was about to fuck Kari and his knees hurt like hell and he was so distracted by the pain that he could have fucked it all up. Not to mention that it was probably the only chance he‘d get to hit that and he didn‘t want the memory tainted with aching knees. In retrospect, his knees were the least of his concerns. The only beautiful thing was that sex was freely given..it‘s never been as easy since then.   
  
Adam wanted Kari so bad. And there she was. Wanting him. Thighs spread scissor-wide coming to an apex where her pubic hair was shaved in a flame pattern. And appropriately, the coloration matched.   
  
But he was so worked up. He couldn‘t help it. He climbed on top of her, awkward as a teenager, and the moment her salivating pussy licked the tip of his dick—Bam! He exploded on her. And of course he collapsed on her like a corpse. What else could he do? He‘d come, yeah, but it wasn‘t a good coming, the kind that leaves you relaxed and kinda dozy. No, this was the kind that leaves you anemic. You feel like you‘ve shot your guts out your dick and there‘s nothing left to do but lie down and die. Yeah, it was that kind of coming. He‘d just blown his last chance to fuck a beautiful young woman (cuz let‘s face it, at his age he‘s looking at a mid-forties, divorcees and single moms bracket, and no amount of cable TV notoriety is going to change that. Hot, dumb chicks who fuck guys on TV don‘t watch the Discovery Channel. They watch American Idol and dream of fucking Clay Aiken [boy, are they in for a surprise]. Smart chicks watch Mythbusters, which is fine because there are plenty of hot, smart chicks, but hot, smart chicks are too smart to throw themselves at him just because he dreams up clever ways to test airplane toilet suction.)   
  
Adam knew instinctively that he should get up, but the last thing he wanted to see was Kari‘s angry face, and he certainly wasn‘t ready to face that prospect of seeing that look permanently screwed into her features for as long as the show lasted. Well, he could talk to the Producer. Get her fired. Y‘know, I caught her stealing some red phosphorous and sulfuric acid. And I don‘t wanna make any accusations here, but I know that those materials are used to manufacture methamphetamine. Easy. But he still couldn‘t bear to look at her face.   
  
And then Kari did something that he could have never predicted. She laughed. Fucking laughed. He bolted up, maybe she was sobbing and it just sounded like laughing. But no, there she was, laughing. He never would, but he really wanted to slap her just then. He settled on sliding his naked ass off of that workbench and saying nothing. She kept laughing.    
  
He bent over to pick up his pants.   
  
She bolted up, suddenly serious. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Just getting dressed.”

  
“You splooge on me like a virgin, and you‘re putting on your pants?”

  
He trapped a swelling yeeeaaahhh under his tongue, realizing that it was a largely rhetorical question, and answering in the affirmative could quite possible have been lethal.   
  
Her chin drooped, and her bleach bottle red hair fell over her eyes. She looked soft and tender like a sulking child. The juxtaposition of that image with the one he‘d had of the domineering sex vixen braided together blissfully in his mind. But that expression roused all of his latent protective instincts, and he abandoned his crumpled jeans to the cement floor.   
  
“I‘m so sorry. It‘s just that you, you..turned me on so much that I couldn‘t. I had a great time.”   
  
The moment it spilled out of his mouth, he regretted it. Her glare ground into him, but suddenly (and unsettlingly) it split into a smile.   
  
“Lie down.”

  
He looked around, seeing no comfortable surface on which to comply.    
  
“On the floor.” It was cold, concrete and grimy, but he plunked down and laid down flat on his back, like a patient anesthetized on the table. But it was just contrition for what he‘d done. Man, this was the girl that Tory said he‘s give his left nut for. But not his right. That‘s my proud nut. Rides higher in the sack.    
  
Kari sat up and slid off the workbench by her butt. Adam saw the shining vestiges of his eagerness slathered like a mucous trail down her cunt. But it couldn‘t extinguish those neatly-trimmed red flames. Nothing could.   
  
Propping herself up diagonally on her left hand, she sat beside him. She dipped her fingers in the congealed puddle, and without a word, finger-painted indecipherable symbols on his chest in his own cold semen.   
  
Adam‘s mind was racing, oscillating between disgust, panic and imagining how ridiculous he‘d look in a dark room with a black light glaring at his chest. Maybe it was kinda like the Da Vince Code. She was about to kill him, and the semen-scrawl was meant to be some kind of code for a clever cryptographer to decipher with the help of a reluctant university professor and each chapter would be two pages long so you feel REALLY smart...or not.   
  
Because of the thick viscosity of the semen, Kari constantly revisited the pool, like a painter sweeping their brush against the palette. At the same time, the semen on his chest, spread so thin, was quickly drying into brittle dandruff flakes.    
  
She was smiling, like she had a private joke rolling around her skull like a marble.    
  
And Adam said nothing. Just stared at the industrial ceiling and tried to lie still as a slab of plywood.   
  
An analysis of the pattern of finger-strokes, left-to-right and predominated by configurations of short lines, suggested that she was writing. He willed his chest to encode the location of the lines, so that he could decipher the words. He wanted them to sink into his skin like hematoxylin, so that they‘d be stained blue and readable in a mirror. But it would be backward. Well, he‘d just hold a hand mirror at an angle to his reflection and read off of that.   
  
Kari stood up. Adam didn‘t know how much time had passed. She dressed silently, scrupulously smoothing away the rumpledness of the tryst, from blue jeans to stripey arm-warmers. One would‘ve never guessed that she had just had a tumble on a workbench.   
  
Considering this a cue, Adam stood up and began to dress. He looked down, hoping to see some explanation painted on his chest, but she‘d overwritten her words so many times that they blended together layered in illegible scrawls. He frowned.   
  
She left when he was naked from socks up. Apparently, he‘d put his shoes on first.   
  
“That was fun.” She tossed back to him from the dark frame of the doorway. Oh man, what he‘d have given for the antecedent to ‘that.’    
  
And boy how he‘d misinterpreted it. The next time she let him try to fuck her, he came on her belly. Deliberately that time. She didn‘t seem too thrilled about it. The fact that she wiped off the come with his favorite black t-shirt cued him in to that. He put it back on. It was stiff and crumbly, kinda like an old man‘s soiled handkerchief.   
  
She didn‘t yell at him, though. Didn‘t slap him. Didn‘t tell him he was useless. (She left him to berate himself for it.) Just got dressed and left him on Jamie‘s desk with nothing but her fading, glazed ass-print to remind him that she‘d been there. He wiped it away with his forearm.   
  
[Jamie rested an apple on that spot the next day, and Adam watched rapt as he ate it. He wondered if it tasted like Kari‘s ass. He couldn‘t say why, but he‘d been jealous.]   
  
Kari didn‘t let him try again for a week. He sent flowers, Godiva chocolates, coded cards scribbled with desperate apologies. But she did nothing. Said nothing. Just carried on as normal. There wasn‘t even anything perfunctory in her mannerisms. She treated him personably, but it was the platonic personability you‘d pay to a neutral acquaintance. One who you joked with, but wouldn‘t fuck. That‘s what made it so unbearable. He could‘ve dealt with avoidance, even outright hostility, but this...he couldn‘t decode how she felt (or even that she felt) and that bothered him. It felt like they‘d never messed around. Like they never would mess around. It made him question whether or not it had actually happened.   
  
He obsessed over how he could win her back. And he was fucking up his work as a result. Made sloppy cuts with the band-saw. Wired a circuit backward. Stripped the laces off some bolts, effectively destroying a pressure chamber. He blamed the intern he‘d been working with for the last one. Jamie gave her a stern reprimand which left her crying through her break, because when Jamie reprimands you feel like you‘re going to lose your job. He won‘t reassure you. Won‘t feign sympathy.    
  
Jamie doesn‘t appreciate the mentally-exhausting human drudgery that goes into production. But then again the man resents the fact that he has to employ people. If machines could do all the work in the shop, Jamie would only employ people to maintain them. Adam guesses that‘s why he‘s so brusque with everyone—he resents them for their humanity.   
  
But that‘s Jamie, and at that point Adam was just doing his damndest to avoid him. If Jamie knew that Adam had been fucking after-hours in his shop—well, Adam didn‘t want to think about the consequences. But they‘d most assuredly be brutal.   
  
All of his earnest pondering came to nothing, as it turned out. One week later, Kari inexplicably passed him a note while he was working out the physics of a penny derailing a train with Jamie.    
  
She didn‘t even try to hide the note from Jamie. Just walked up and handed it to Adam without a word. And of course she‘d derailed his train of thought in the process.    
  
“Well?”

  
It was three questions in one, not to mention an accusation. What is that? What does it say? What is so important that it had to interrupt my work? and That contains something I would disapprove of as your effective employer.   
  
Oh, just some specs on a rig.”   
  
“Which rig?”    
  


“The...train...one.”    
  


“I was under the impression that we weren‘t building a rig.”

  
“Yeah, but...I thought it might be...an alternative.”

  
“Look Adam, I don‘t work on my own private versions of the projects, so stick to the plans we agree on. You‘re such a baby when you don‘t get your way.”   
  
“Sorry.” He stuffed the note in his pocket as soon as Jamie turned back to the graph paper. When a safe amount of time had passed, he excused himself to the bathroom. The note burned in his pocket all the way. It contained answers. If not hope, then at least a definite end to their fucking. Closure, you know. He‘d take closure over this limbo any day.   
  
He locked himself into the bathroom and wrenched out the note so fast that he tore it down the center. When he shakily held the crumbled halves together it read,  _ Wear Crisco on a chain tomorrow, then meet me in the model shop at 11. Don‘t try to hide it under your shirt. _ __   
  
“Dammit.” No answers. Just doors opening to corridors. It was like an episode of the X-Files. Every answer begs ten more questions. And if it‘s increasing exponentially by a factor of four, by the end of nine seasons they‘d produce a googol of questions. And to try to answer them all in one apocalyptic episode—impossible!   
  
He couldn‘t do it at the shop, not with the scrutiny of the television cameras. No, he‘d have to work on this at home and out of sight of the wife.   
  
But first he stewed about it for the rest of the day.   
  
When Adam got home, he immediately excused himself to the garage. He cleaned out a superglue bottle with some acetone, squeezed it closed then let the pressure suck in as much Crisco as its limited volume would allow. He then bore a hole into the base of the tube with a safety pin. For the chain, he simply removed the dour 14-karat image of the crucified Christ from a necklace and threaded the chain through the hole in the superglue tube. He placed it around his neck. It hung heavily on him. That was the easy part, next came the neurosis over how ridiculous he was going to look the next day—and how the hell was he going to explain the necessity of a superglue tube around his neck?   
  
Hundreds of ideas flared in his mind like flashpowder, only to dissipate into smoke—like flashpowder.   
  
-He‘s got an infection and he filled it with Neosporin so that he can apply it at any point throughout the day. The necklace was just a convenient means of transporting it. But why not in his pocket? Why go through the trouble of putting it into a superglue bottle?   
  
-He just thought it would be convenient to wear some superglue. You know, in the shop, you just need superglue and it isn‘t always on hand. But again, why go through the trouble?   
  
No matter which way he sliced it, there was no justification for wearing superglue around his neck.   
  
Well, he‘d just have to go with masculine confidence about the absurdity, and hope they‘d chalk it up to Adam being Adam.   
  
When his wife tried to manually stimulate his penis that night, he pretended to be asleep. It was consistent with the fact that he wasn‘t getting an erection.   
  
The next day, producer Peter asked him why the hell he was wearing superglue on a chain.   
  
“Ya never know when you‘re never going to need superglue.”

  
“That‘s nice, but you need to take if off. It‘s got the Krazy Glue logo on it, and we can‘t display that on television.”   
  
“Oh, that‘s OK. I‘ll just take off the label.”   
  
And he did. He took a metal file and carefully scraped off the logo.   
  
When he met Kari that night, she smiled at him and shook her head. “Too embarrassed to use a bigger bottle? Man, that‘s too bad.”   
  
By then he was thoroughly confused.   
  
She slipped off her sandals, and sat down on a vacant table, pale feet dangling off the end.   
  
“Lubricate yourself with that, then aretifice with my feet.”

  
“Huh?”

  
“Lube up with that,” she indicated the tube of Crisco, “then fuck these.” The arches of her feet joined at the toes and heel, leaving an elliptical opening in the center.   
  
Well, that explained why he would have wanted more Crisco.   
  
“No cheating, either. So don‘t try to relubricate with saliva.”

  
He hadn‘t yet thought of it. But now that he knew, it hurt to have lost the option.   
  
She picked up a Laurell K. Hamilton novel and lay down on the table.   
  
“Whenever you‘re ready.” Well, that sounded accommodating.   
  
What could he say? No? If this was his avenue to forgiveness, then he was willing to do penance. Must have been his Catholic upbringing. Though he‘d probably have to do a hundred Hail Mary‘s for this. It didn‘t matter anymore. Kari was his religion. He‘d sing Ave Maria while jerking off and thinking about her.   
  
He pulled off the cap, and deciding that he didn‘t want to lose any of the precious lubricant on his hands in trying to rub it on, he applied it directly to his penis. He was hard. For once he wished he had a smaller penis, just to cut down the surface area. Cylinder: SA=2 π r^2 + 2 pi r h, but that‘s subtracting the base and top, so it‘s just A=2 π r h. Then, the surface area of a hemisphere=2 π r ^2. And his penis is roughly five inches long...erect. That‘s five inches for the cylinder and one for the hemisphere.

  
‘Ack.‘ The Crisco was startlingly cold on his dick, and stunk the mayonnaise stench of animal fat. He drizzled it on, like mustard on a ballpark dog. When he‘d squeezed the tube dry, he tossed it aside. It rattled on the concrete. He was bare-ass naked from the waist down, and felt uncomfortably exposed in such a large space.   
  
Adam positioned himself in front of Kari‘s feet. Evaluating the situation, her feet dangled marginally higher than belt-buckle height, so he had to stand on tip-toe in order to penetrate them. Her big toes were manicured red, each containing a large white flower with plastic jewels glued in their centers. Pretty, but he‘d have hated to be the bee that tried to pollinate that.   
  
His fingers worked nervously in the air, like a pianist about to play a complex concerto. He looked at her, but she was buried in her book. And she didn‘t seem to be faking it either. She seemed to be genuinely more engrossed in the book.   
  
He took a breath, squeezed her feet together and stabbed his dick between her feet. Oh God—the friction! As a result of not spreading the Crisco, some of his dick was well-lubricated, but most of it was dry as sandpaper. Think of it like rubbing wax paper on gravel. Not that she had particularly dry feet, but they weren‘t baby soft either. They were calloused from the constant standing in the shop, and at that moment he‘d have given his left nut for a pumice stone...and the right one.   
  
He withdrew slowly, cautiously. The withdrawal was much smoother than the penetration, as the Crisco had been smeared across the rest of his dick. Encouraged, he tested the ellipse again, gliding himself through the slippery improvised aperture. Perfect. He clutched her feet harder for better purchase and set to fucking them with all his might.   
  
He wanted to come fast, but the awkwardness of standing on his tip-toes coupled with the general lack of tactile sensation on his dick retarded his escalation. It was like dragging a Volkswagen up a mountain. As he fucked the arches, he was thrusting into air. It was like jerking himself off inefficiently.   
  
But the perception of pleasure is all in your head. Physically, he was uncomfortably fucking feet, but mentally he was zooming down pleasure‘s plane sonic-fucking-booming because it was Kari. He was feeding off the breadcrumbs of her beauty, and it was ecstasy.   
  
“You know, these kinds of guys are the ones I‘ve always wanted to sleep with,” Kari said conversationally, not looking up from her book.   
  
She didn‘t seem to be inviting a question. She didn‘t even seem to be addressing him. So he kept fucking, clamping his eyes shut and blasting metal in his head to drown out her words. To no avail.   
  
“Ever since I was a teenager, I‘ve fantasized about vampire sex with a tall, pale muscular man. Y‘know, bad boy archetypes. Emotionally unavailable with dark secrets, but great in the sack.”

  
The lubricant was thinning, and the shadow of friction was rubbing Indian-burns up his dick. He had to finish soon.   
  
“I‘ve always had this one fantasy where I‘m tied to the bedpost of a massive four-posters with black, silken sheets in a gothic castle with a lightning storm raging and rain smacking against the window and me and this hot vampire guy drink each other‘s blood in a kind of parallel circuit.”   
  
“Oh, FUCK!” He came with a force you‘d have to measure in megatons, draining his balls on Kari‘s ankles. He collapsed forward, forehead falling on her rough knees.   
  
“Can you get a wet paper towel?” She asked sweet as cherry pie, like she needed to clean up spilled soda.   
  
“Sure.” He answered to her legs.   
  
Later that night, he found himself Googling European castles that rented rooms to tourists. He closed the window when he realized that he could create the setting, but he‘d never be the actor.    
  
They‘ve continued in that vein for a month. Kari passing Adam a note, asking him to compromise his dignity at the shop and somehow weaving that into the tryst they‘d share that night. Their activities have gone on unnoticed—well, there was one close-call.   
  
Kari told Adam to make a ballistics gel model of an ass. Since creating a new fiberglass mold would be a little too ambitious (and problematic, as the time required could easily get him caught) he just used the existing mold taken of Jamie. After-hours, he took the mold out of storage and lamented the fact that he only needed a relatively small part of the body, but he couldn‘t just destroy the mold and only create an ass. A broken mold would certainly raise suspicions. No, he needed to create a whole body. So he did—and it was a pain in the ass (no pun intended…was there actually a pun there?) It took hours. It must have been 4 am by the time the mold had finally congealed. Anyway, as you‘d imagine. Kari told him to fuck it. He complied, while she sat on a work table, reading another one of her salacious vampire novels.   
  
Somehow, it was extremely gratifying to fuck Jamie‘s ass. Not in a sexual way. He‘d never think of Jamie like that. No, it was about power, plain and simple. It was about taking that asshole and fucking his—asshole. It was about degrading him after all the condescension that Adam had endured all those years. It was about getting his comeuppance after years of lording his greater knowledge and experience over Adam in the most arrogant, dismissive way, he was degraded into nothing more than an orifice. Yeah, that was satisfying. Sadly, that gratification, though limited, was far greater than the actual gratification attained from fucking the actual ballistics gel.   
  
He didn‘t finish until five am...ballistics gel is no picnic to fuck. It‘s cold, and apparently the thermal energy produced from energetic fucking causes it to liquefy and resolidify, so he literally had to cut himself out of the ballistics-gel version of Jamie‘s ass. Kari was gone, so he had to carry his dick (like a waist-level wrapped present), trapped inside the ballistics double of Jamie‘s ass, over to a tool chest, and cut himself out with a straight razor in shaky hands. By then the sky was light gray with fast-approaching dawn.   
  
Adam gathered up all the evidence into a garbage bag and hurried out back to dump it. He felt oddly like a serial killer, throwing away a garbage bag full of dismembered body parts.   
  
When he had finished, he went back inside to sweep up the chunks of gel left on the floor from the painful extrication of his penis. The larger chunks were easy enough to pick up, but it was those tiny fragments of gel scattered around the floor like breadcrumbs that drove him nuts. His fingers were too big to pick up the smallest pieces, and they stubbornly stuck to the concrete floor when he tried to coax them into a dustpan with the broom.    
  
He bent over to scrape them in with his palms, when a voice impatiently asked his squatting ass, “What are you doing?”

  
Shit! It was Jamie. Adam knew that the man was married to his work, but 5:30 am? And he hadn‘t even heard his truck pull up. Maybe he slept every night in a giant Tupperware container in the warehouse to keep himself young. Looking at it, he hadn‘t been too successful.   
  
“I was, uh, just—‘‘   
  
“And what‘s that?” He pointed to the gel flakes on the ground. It was an accusation.   
  
His brow began to sweat and his forehead bunched into tight parallels, “Nothing. Nothing, just crumbs from breakfast. Had a pastry.”   
  
Jamie didn‘t respond, just picked up one of the larger chunks, which by then had accumulated a grainy layer of gray dust from Adam‘s attempts to sweep it up. But it had an unmistakable white residue on it.   
  
“A frosted pastry. Y‘know, the hot pockets with the-the frosting packs.”   
  
With a skeptical look on his face, Jamie rolled the gel between his fingers, which knotted Adam‘s stomach to watch as he anticipated the moment when Jamie was going to realize it was covered in come and then he‘d have to pour out the whole sordid story. Jamie smelled it, Adam winced. His heart was climbing stairs in his chest. Jamie made to pop it in his mouth.

  
“Don‘t!” Adam cried out. Lowering his hand, Jamie cracked a satisfied smile. He wasn‘t going to eat it. He just wanted to torture Adam. It worked—he‘d extracted an effective confession.   
  
“You‘ve been screwing with the ballistics gel.”

  
Looking at the floor, “Yes.” How did he guess?   
  
Now for the interrogation. “You came to my shop early in the morning to use my materials to work on your own ideas and then you lie to me about it?” Jamie‘s voice was dead even. Adam wished he was yelling.   
  
Leaning in close, close enough to smell the onion bagel on his breath, Jamie growled, “I never want to see you in my shop without my presence again, do you understand? If you do, I‘ll have you arrested for trespassing. You‘re on the show, but this is my shop.”   
  
From that distance, Adam saw the bristles of his moustache shiver like reeds under his breath.   
  
And then Jamie left.   
  
Just left.   
  
Adam suppressed the impulse to jump for joy. Who would have thought that Jamie‘s arrogant certainty in his own deductions would be Adam‘s saving grace?   
  
The relief, however, was short lived. Adam realized that he was stuck at the shop for the rest of the day. He couldn‘t just go home at that point because Jamie might suspect that his early-morning activities had actually been an all-nighter. No, he‘d just have to tough it out, no question. And then an even more devastating reality jarred him where he stood—this thing with Kari had to end. The realization tore away his breath like a punch to the gut. He had lost the only venue for their trysts.

  
But there was hope. Adam had been sloppy. He‘d stayed too late. If he could just make sure to leave by four (and to clean up the mess), Jamie would never know. It was risky, but he was willing to assume the risks for Kari. He loved her.    
  
Adam bee-lined to the men‘s room crying when he saw Jamie calling a security company about installing some closed-circuit cameras in his workspace.   
  
That was a week ago. The notes have stopped coming, and as stomach-turning as they were, he has come to miss them. Adam knew that Kari had seen the security company installing the equipment, and she‘s a smart girl so she‘s not doubt sussed-out the ramifications.   
  
Adam wants so say that she‘s seen a noticeable change in her demeanor as a result, or at least that under her sunny character a hint of grief burst through, either with the occasional grimace cracked the left side of her mouth, or lines delved in her perfect, pale forehead. But no, that would just be delusively self-serving.   
  
Adam, in the meanwhile, has been a wreck. He can‘t fall asleep. And when he falls asleep he can‘t quite stay there. When he tries, closed-eye visions of naked Karis taunt his eyes. He imagines her specter falling over him like fog as he‘s lying on his floral-patterned bedsheets and biting his lip so that he comes silently from his frenetic jerking-off. He doesn‘t want to wake up his wife. He doesn‘t want to have to explain.   
  
And his work has suffered as well. Adam hasn‘t been able to focus on his work , so Jamie‘s essentially been leading him around by a leash, which is more than satisfactory for Jamie, but Peter warns that it‘s Adam‘s energy and enthusiasm that imbues the show with some life. And that‘s where the ratings come from. Well, he has no life. No energy. Just his mind constantly working in the wearing repetition of images from memories of Kari juxtaposed seamlessly with soft-focused fantasies until they all blend together into a solid ache sitting heavy in his chest like a giant rock of a tumor.   
  
Memory really is the grave that we pour our lives into.   
  
He‘s contemplated killing himself. But he‘s too much of a coward to do it.   
  
He‘s sitting listless, listening to Jamie drone about a rig of something or other and acceleration and explosions and, suddenly, hope falls into his lap. A folded scrap of paper, he looks up to see Kari breezing out the door. He then turns his head to Jamie, who apparently is so absorbed in his own brilliance that he didn‘t notice.   
  
Adam quietly excuses himself. In the men‘s room, he unfolds the note and has to support himself on the wall when he reads the words. The bomb in his hand bloodies his fingers.   
  
“I will if Jamie‘s there. No asking for a three-way, you have to seduce him. Kiss him at 6 in the office and I‘ll tell you more.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Kari’s behest, Adam seduces Jamie. It’s awful.

Adam wrenches his cellphone out of his pocket. The LED display announces 3:06.

Three-oh-six!?

That bitch. Three hours and not a meal break, or even an iota of off-camera time between now and six.

His stomach roils like a hot pan of ramen noodles and his chest contracts hard like a vacuum-sealed frozen dinner hastily torn open. 

Sweat oozes on the back of his neck like glaze on a ham-steak. It drips cold as glacial melt down his back, hurling the world into gritty, high-def focus, so sharp that everything stands out in harsh relief. The lines of oily grit packed under his nails. The broken grid of pixillated freckles cascading down his hands. The lemon fart smell of disinfectant hastily sprayed to mask a wet shit bubble session of diarrhea. 

Resting his knotted forehead against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror, he earnestly wills down the pureed wet burrito swiveling dangerously up his esophagus.

How is he going to do this?

This isn’t like trying to get a drunk chick in the sack, and definitely lacks the relative anonymity and thus lack of enduring responsibility for the consequences.

And Jamie;s not a homophobe or anything, but he’s not so well-oiled in self-security that a come-on from another guy (especially Adam) is just going to glide off him like rain on duck feathers either. 

Man, every time Adam so much as looks at Jamie, Jamie’s going to assume that Adam’s mind-raping him with sordid, ass-addling fantasies of pounding his prostate like a pugilist pummeling a punching bag. He’ll involuntarily clench his sphincter when Adam pops up in his thoughts. He’ll avoid bending over in Adam;s presence, instead electing to squat down by the knees, like a girl in a short skirt trying to conceal her panties. He’ll probably be so worried about dropping things for fear of presenting that bulbous temptation so starkly in front of Adams eyes, that his edginess over dropping them will make him more apt to drop them, and thus he will be forced to bend over to pick them up more often than he would under circumstances where he didn’t fear having his anus ogled by some deranged homosexual. And the greater frequency of drops will make him more acutely aware of this, and with each successive drop he’ll compound his anxiety exponentially until he’s lost all manual dexterity in Adam’s presence, decides that he’s too great of a distraction to have around the shop, and fires him. Of course, the decision would based on Jamie’s fear of Adam’s homosexuality, so Adam can sue for discrimination. Then again, can he sue for being fired for being gay if he’s not actually gay?...Damn.

Well, now that he’s certain of the worst case scenario, anything else should be a pleasant surprise.

Not that he cares about what Jamie thinks of him. It’s not like he’s got a crush on him or anything. It’s just that no matter which way you slice it, it’s uncomfortable to work so closely with someone who thinks you want to fuck them and holds it against you.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckety fuck.

And Kari wants Jamie and Adam to double-team her. Their junk’s gonna rub against each other in her. And how masculinity-compromising would it be if, like, they’d have to hold onto each other for purchase or something, and their hands met and like their balls slapped into each other—And worst! If Jamie’s fucking Kari and Kari’s fucking Adam, then syllogistically Jamie’s fucking Adam! [If A=B and B=C, then A=C.] Fucking geometry! 

And Adam knows that in light of all this, it’s really pretty ridiculous, but he can’t help but feel like Jamie’s encroaching on something that Adam’s earned. Just like he always does. Adam’s fucked the arches of Kari’s feet and Jamie gets to reap the rewards. That fucking bastard. Why does Kari do this to him? Why does she fuck with him so much?

Short answer—because he lets her. And he’s such a fucking loser that it doesn’t matter. He’s pissed because she debases his dignity, but did he ever have any? Was he ever a man to be degraded from that distinction? Adam supposes that you can’t really be torn down if you never had a pedestal to stand on. But Kari thinks he has one. Well, as long as she’s thinks that there’s something worth destroying in him, she’ll think that he’s worth her time, however measured, and that is all he needs to keep him happy.

But that’s what real love is. The complete, selfless surrender of yourself to someone else. And somehow, in his gut, he doesn’t trust that someone loves him sincerely unless he’s had to earn it. And even then, he won’t accept that love is totally unless it’s doled-out incrementally. Women who give their whole hearts all at once, they leave nothing for him to want. Yeah, he’s married and all that, but someone needed to take care of his kids.

Someone tries the door, and finding it locked, knocks in earnest.

He glances at his cellphone. 3:12.

Feeling like the world’s rocking on a massive tilt-o-whirl, he stumbles out of the men’s room and takes his seat beside Jamie. 

“That took a while.” A monotone accusation, right under the searing glare of the ring of cameras trained on him like a firing squad.

“Geez man, do I have to account for the duration of my piss-breaks now?”

“No. But isn’t it weird that those notes have such diuretic effects”

Adam says nothing, trying not to give anything away. There’s no way to tell how much he actually knows. Jamie could just be feeling him out for information. Then again, Jamie is incredibly perceptive, even if he doesn’t know the exact details of Adam’s transgressions, he may have already ascertained their character. Fuck—but he knows that something is definitely awry and if it’s happening in his shop he’s going to find out the details of it. Adam’s fucked. And he’s fucked on camera.

Luckily, before Jamie can proceed with his cross-examination, Christine approaches with a question about polyester resin and Jamie’s forced to follow her to her work station. But his backward glance quite emphatically communicates ‘this isn’t over yet.’ A questioning glance darts around the ring of cameramen, who without a word unanimously decide to follow Jamie and Christine. 

Thank you Christine, for your over-eager attempts to curry favor with the boss as well as imposing yourself into our camera shot. She does it by asking questions, which Jamie prefers to making mistakes, but then again, Jamie has a threshold over which you should be competent and not have to ask questions. Christine is far over this threshold, but she constantly asks questions in an obvious, showy way to attract attention to the fact that she’s eager and attentive. Not to mention that the most pressing questions seem to conveniently arise when the cameras are on. Adam can’t blame her, he supposes, he;d do that if he’d been cut-off from the show and told everyone in the shop to fuck themselves.

Christine’s been torn-up lately over being cut-out from camera time. When Scottie quit she was sure she would step up and be elevated to the build team. Then Grant was assigned to it and she flipped a shit.

Adam spied her screaming accusations at producer Dan through a cracked-open door.

“It’s because I’m too ugly, isn’t it? C’mon, tell me! I can take it!

“It’s not!”

“What!? Thought I might crack the camera lens?”

“You know that’s not tr—!”

“DON’T PATRONIZE ME YOU FUCKING SEXIST! ADAM AND JAMIE ARE UGLY AS SIN, BUT THAT DOESN’T MATTER—THEY’RE MEN! THIS ISN’T AN ENGINEERING SHOW, IT’S PORN! UGLY MEN WITH HOT WOMEN THROWING THEIR EMACIATED, ANOREXIC LEGS OPEN ON THE WORKBENCH! FUCKING—FUCKING—FUCK!! The last word climbed to a shriek. “ADMIT IT!—FUCKING ADMIT IT, YOU LYING SACK OF SHIT! THAT’S WHY YOU REPLACED ME WITH THAT FUCKING GREASY CHINK CALCULATOR!” Adam bit back the urge to interject actually, he’s Japanese. So greasy jap calculator, greasy harbor bomber calculator, or even greasy twinkie calculator would be more correct.

“SAY IT—IT’S CUZ I’M UGLY! I’M UGLY! I’M UGLY!”

“YEAH! IT’S CUZ YOU’RE UGLY! YOU’RE FAT! YOUR FACE MAKES ME WANT TO SAY ‘ROLL OVER’ AND THROW DOGGIE BISCUITS AT YOU! YOU’RE A PAPER BAG FOUR—THAT MEANS YOU’D BE A FOUR IF YOU HAD A PAPER BAG OVER YOUR HEAD! WHAT’S YOUR HERITAGE?: ENGLISH, ITALIAN AND BULLDOG!? YEAH, THAT’S WHY YOU CAN’T STAY. WE CAN’T PUT ANYTHING OBSENCE ON TV, BUT IT TAKES TOO MUCH EDITING TIME TO HIDE YOUR OFFENSIVELY-FUCKING-UGLY FACE WITH BLURRING GRIDS!”

Adam heard the dry smack of a hand firmly slapping a cheekbone. 

She stormed out. Adam, absorbed in his voyeurism, had forgotten to move, so he found himself standing directly in her way. [There’s two things in this world you don’t get in the way of” a stampede of elephants, and an angry woman. And personally, he’d take the elephants any day. Just run at right angles.] 

He neatly stepped aside, but she shoved him anyway.

“You’re not ugly,” he assured in the same tone that you would say it’s what on the inside that counts.

“Fuck you.” She growled, tears streaming hot down her neck and face inflamed cherry bomb red.

Adam thought Dan had been harsh with her. She’s not ugly. She’s just butter. Everything butter face. Duh-dun dun.

He heard her shrill voice echoing from the warehouse. “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORES!”

She had principles, Christine did.

But you can’t pay the cellphone bill with principles. Don’t believe me? Go to your local airport, say you’re going one-way from idealism to reality, and ask about the exchange rate from principles to currency.

So a week later, Christine came back, all apologies, expounding upon the fact that she didn’t deserve her job back...but could she please have it back?

Adam was ready to say ‘but you’ve made such a persuasive case for why you don’t deserve your job.’ But he’s not a dick. Well, that’s not true. He’s a dick to his underlings, but he’s not an overt dick like Jamie. Adam’ll say something dick with a shit-eating smile on his face. That’s because Jamie’s a task-master, but Adam’s a sadist.

Oh, and about Christine. Adam can’t be sure, as he wasn’t really present (as hiring is really Jamie’s responsibility), but he heard that she tossed a carrot salad in order to get her job back. And no, he’s not talking about the kind with ranch dressing—well, you could...No. Just no. Salad dressing rim-jobs are just more than his stomach can take.

Then again, Christine’s timely interruption has untwisted some of those knots in his stomach. God bless Christine, and her eager-to-please, neo-racist, persecution complex, low-self-esteem attitude. Before his TV career got rolling, Adam fucked chicks like Christine. It’s easy. She thinks people will only like her if she fucks them. And Adam’s willing to let her fuck him so that she can have her that powerful, transitory hit of self-worth. That’s easy. But you’ve got to get rid of them by morning or they cling like the flu, begging for attention and constant affirmation of their worth as human beings. Yet oddly enough they are quick to reject any compliment out of hand. That’s why it’s not fair when chicks ask if something makes them look fat. If you say no, they don’t believe you. And if you say yes, they get offended. Adam’s solution: say ‘Those pants don’t make you look fat. Your fat does.’

Well, ok, he’s never actually said that. He’s not stupid. But he’s thought it.

But anyway, thank Jesus Adam can do better than Christine these days. Before the show, women like Kari wouldn’t have paid him a second glance. But now—god, she’s so beautiful. Not in the rail-thin, exposed ribs, movie starlet way, but in a Scarlet Johansen kinda way. Curvy body, full lips, and an open smile. Movie starlets are forbidding. Kari’s warm and welcoming and approachable...which for Adam means she’d reject him nicely. God, he loves her so hard it’s giving him an ulcer.

But he can’t have her again until--oh shit! Christine may have solved the immediate problem of Jamie’s inquisition, but with Jamie gone—Jamie’s gone! It’s improbable that Adam could pull off seducing him, but it’s impossible to do so if Jamie’s answering some mindless question about polyester resin. Fucking Christine! 

Adam rocks nervously in his chair, frenetically playing piano scales on his knees, dreading and anticipating Jamie’s return.

Christine’s question ends up lasting a full hour. It’ll take those tech-geeks in Australia a good while to edit her out of the episode. What the hell can be so complex about polyester resin?

Adam hasn’t moved from his seat. He’s tried, to be sure, but every time he worked up the nerve to stand up, he’s impotently fallen back in premature defeat. What was he going to do? Seduce Jamie in the presence of four cameras and Christine? But he couldn’t just sit there—but what could he do if he got up? Instead, he settled on restlessly fidgeting for an hour.

Jamie returns, cameras in tow. His face is capillary-red. Christine must have pissed him off royal, and Adam’s a deluded man if he believes that some of that irritation isn’t going to be projected onto him. 

Heavily, Jamie sits beside him and begins to distractedly drone about something. Adam’s distracted himself. The tone of Jamie’s words filter through his ears, but their content is utterly lost as Adam struggles to think of a way to signal his intention without alerting the cameras (and ironically, without alerting Jamie. Adam’s plan is basically to come onto Jamie in a plausibly deniable way. The only problem means that plausible deniability is undetected signal’s twin, meaning basically that his over-cautious desire to save face in the event that Jamie rejects him means that Jamie may never detect Adam’s advances at all.) 

The leg brush! That should work! Keeping his upper body stiffly still, he scoots his leg toward Jamie’s and—they bump! Jamie shifts his leg away. Shit! Adam had been too hasty. He’d collided with Jamie’s leg with too much force, so Jamie automatically assumed that it had been an accident. Now that he’s failed in his more surreptitious plans, he’s forced to take bolder measures.

Clenching and unclenching his fist, Adam fights the faint feeling that a giant vice is clamped onto his torso tightening by degrees. He sucks a voluminous breath through his nose, and inches his hand toward Jamie’s. His heart’s bouncing erratic like a hyper rubber ball in his chest cavity as he extends his pinky to gently hook over Jamie’s thumb. Without breaking his train of thought, Jamie shifts his hand away from Adam and closer to his own body, as if Adam’s pinky had just incidentally brushed his own.

“Sorry man.” Adam finds himself saying.

Unheeding, Jamie continues.

Adam shouldn’t have apologized.

Ok, one last shot. Leg-to-leg didn’t work. Hand-to-hand didn’t work, but he hasn’t tried hand-to-leg! It’s the most dangerous of his stratagems, because it’s conspicuous to the cameras and potentially revealing of his intentions. But it’s all he has left.

Trying to look natural, but succeeding only in looking like someone who is conspicuously trying to look natural, he yawns an arm-stretching yawn, and instead of replacing his hands on the table, he places them gently on his thighs. By degrees, he slides his hand to the outer portions of his jeans until half in anchored on his pants, and the other is floating precariously in open air. And then it’s inching toward Jamie’s thigh, excruciatingly, unnaturally slow when—

“So, I’m having difficulty working-out how we’re going to solve this problem in a gravitationally-influenced environment.”

Involuntarily, his hand jumps, smacking the bottom of the table just over Jamie’s crotch. 

Shit! Fuck! Dammit! he shakes out his aching knuckles.

“Distracted?” The word has so many implications.

If Adam says something, it’ll make the situation televisually interesting and this compromising scene will definitely make it to TV. He seals his lips, and dejectedly slouches back in his chair.

Jamie smirks in that annoyingly self-satisfied way. 

Adam listens, following the conversation half-heartedly, trying to be as bland as possible so that the day doesn’t show up on the air. Minutes slip by, like water leaking out of cupped hands.

At 5:52, Adam’s ready to cry, and to his chagrin he hasn’t been able to sufficiently distract himself with work. He’s lost his last chance with Kari. She’s going to glide past the office, see it vacant and never spare him another morsel of attention again. This prospect horrifies Adam. Kari’s become his raison d’etre. Losing her would be losing the only thing that made living more than just being alive. 

He’ll hang himself with his belt in the warehouse. He pictures her finding his body hanging heavily from the ceiling, swinging in the drafts. His eyes would be open, tongue out and askew, and glasses fallen crookedly down his nose. She’d cry, knowing it had been her fault. And rightly so. But that’s too petulant a thought-process even now in this horrible situation. He’d may as well play “Adam’s Song” on repeat when he does it, he’s acting so immature. Or he’s just trying to ennoble his intentions when really he’s just not going to do it, because it would rob him of the pleasure of seeing it himself.

5:53. No! He has succeeded at everything he has applied himself to, and he’ll be damned if his own timidity robs him of this opportunity. Yeah, it’ll be awkward around Jamie, but he’s got to try. It;s going to be even more awkward if Adam can’t get his work done because he’s too busy grieving for the only solace he’d ever had. For a moment, Adam leaves himself, like he’s viewing from a distance as his boldness manipulates his body.

“We need to talk,” he interrupts.

Jamie sighs impatiently. “About what?”

“I need to tell you something important. Privately.”

Jamie looks skeptical. Adam covers his mic with his hand. “About the notes. In the office” Jamie perks up, probably interpreting Adam’s previous lack of concentration on his anxiety over having been found out. He must assume that Adam’s ready to give his confession. Adam’s got him. He’s already fulfilled half of his task.

Adam leads the way to the office. The cameramen remain at bay, but they don’t hide their anxious curiosity.

Jamie closes the office door behind him, and Adam’s will suddenly fails him. Drains like a femoral artery had ruptured. The door’s not supposed to be closed.

“What’s this about?”

Adam raises a hand, to halt the line of questioning for just a moment. This visibly irritates Jamie.

Adam opens the door a crack and peers out nervously. What’s to stop one of the cameramen from approaching silently in order to indelibly catch the moment? It’s in the contract that there are no limitations on what the cameramen can film. Fuck.

“Well?”

Adam’s eyes shift to the clock. 5:58. Stall for two minutes.

“I just have to come right out about it. No more messing around. Just going to tell it like it is.”

“Then do.” Jamie knows Adam’s stalling.

5:59

“Well, the notes are about Kari and I. And...what we’ve been doing in the warehouse after hours.” Shit, this is rapidly turning into a real confession. This is the point of no return. He’s already divulged enough to lose him his job—and Kari’s. He couldn’t forgive himself for the latter.

“You and Kari?--“ Jamie roars. He really is a lion of a man.

“And hopefully—” 6:00 “—You too.”

He throws his arms around Jamie’s neck and awkwardly throws himself on him like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. His lips clash onto Jamie’s, unpuckered so their thin lips can’t prevent the hard crash of teeth. It’s terrible. It’s unsexy. It’s the most ardor Adam has ever thrown into a kiss in his whole life. As inelegant as it may be, and he can’t conjure up Kari’s face when his lips are rubbing raw against the broom-bristles of Jamiess mustache, so he just repeats her name like a mantra in his head Kari. Kari. Kari. Oddly, it echoes solemn as last rites.

Jamie’s lips haven’t responded, and his arms come up and he’s about to push Adam away with the force you’d detach a rabid dog from your person—but to Adam’s horror, they wrap firm around Adam’s waist with the strength of twisted metal. Jamie deepens the kids, prying open Adam’s shock-frozen lips with his strong tongue. It is the strongest muscle in your body, Adam reflects. Jamie’s meaty hands run rough down Adam’s back, until they curve over the slight-arc of Adam’s ass and squeeze, making Adam yelp, not in pain, but just with the feeling of having something unaccustomed to exploration being so roughly and abruptly seized. The newness of the sensation made his bones melt—and not in a good way. In a painful way that made him acutely aware of his body weight, and how smartly it would smack on the ground if his knees buckled.

Jamie’s heedless. Jamie’s a fucking animal. He backs Adam up against the wall, grinds the stiff tentpole in his pants against Adam’s groin with immense frictive force, like he’s trying to start a fire without matches. He’s probably wondering why Adam’s soft as Play-Doh, and then he’ll wonder about Adam’s lack of response. Adam wills his inert dick to harden, but it’s too busy cowering in fear, like a turtle recoiling into its shell.

So Adam compensates. His arms, which had been hanging nerveless by his sides, tentatively rise up and cup Jamie’s ass, uncertain, like he’d hold a large bowl of jello. But this requires a more active response. He kneads. Jamie grunts. Good.

Adam shifts his weight slightly leftward, so that his thigh could rest between Jamie’s legs, and rubs Jamie’s erection, wondering how he could do this hard enough to stimulate him, but not so hard that he knees him in the balls.

Jamie’s forehead dips to rest on Adam’s shoulder, and his massive frame is shuddering with the terse friction of Adam’s leg. He groans inhuman, making Adam wonder if he himself produces such sounds in the unthinking, unyielding heat of passion. Kari might get turned-off by it. Adam’s getting turned-off by it. Kari—shit Kari. Jamie has backed him out of the narrow shaft of light leaking in through the cracked-open door. He tries to push Jamie back softly, and Jamie’s only response is to pin Adam against the wall with his powerful body as his hands shakily work to liberate his dick from his pants. A tuft of pubic hair springs out, like there’s a trapped, quivering animal in his trousers. Jamie goes commando. Who knew? It seems to fit.

Adam tries more force and gets three inches away from the wall, but his strength is outmatched, and Jamie impatiently slams him back. His back hits hard, making him gasp “oof.”

Adam longingly stares at the door, and the wall-clock which reads 6:03. She couldn’t have seen. They’d only been in view for ten seconds, before Jamie had pushed him against the wall. He’s lost her! He’s lost her and Jamie’s dry-fucking him with predatory ferocity. Jamie’s burning dick fleshily prods Adam’s thigh, like a tap on the shoulder that brings you violently back to reality. He can’t just stop. He’s confessed. And this may be his only chance for reprieve.

Adam’s hand fights its way down between their bodies, until he’s got Jamie’s dick clutched in his hand like a billy-club. Three rough strokes. He’s not very good at it. He knows the principles, but the reversal of position from masturbation to hand-job makes the transition rough.

Jamie winces. “Too rough.” Guttural accusation. Like Adam’s malicious rather than just inept.

He plucks Adam’s hand away. Apparently, Adam’s not going to get away with a quick, easy handjob and pretending like he’s just cleaning a pvc pipe or something. Though why he’d be cleaning a pvc pipe is beyond him.

Jamie crushes Adam down by the shoulder, making him fall to his knees, driving him face-to-head with Jamie’s fat, uncircumcised, flame-red dick. Somehow, this announces a sort of dramatic finality that even jacking Jamie off didn’t really express. His back’s against the wall. Literally. He really doesn’t want his mouth fucked, but he doesn’t see any room for negotiation.

He opens his mouth, gaping wide like Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” Jamie makes no pretence of gentleness. There’s no tentative sliding in. Just a rough thrust of hips and Adam feeling like a midget’s trying to punch him in the throat. He gags, trying to push Jamie away, but Jamie just jerks Adam further forward by the back of his skull. Adam feels like he’s going to vomit. He’s just going to hurl gastric acid and half-digested cheeseburger all over Jamie’s dick, balls and thighs.

When he fails to get his gag reflex under control, Jamie releases him long enough to catch his breath and, to Adam’s horror, begins to zip up his pants. “Fuck, if I wanted a circumcision, I’d get a professional to do it.” 

Somehow, that stings to the core of Adam�s pride. He firmly grasps Jamie�s hands. Jamie stops, and lets his arms sag to his sides. He’d been expecting this. He knows that goading Adam’s inadequacies has always inspired him to improve. Taking a trick from his encounters with women, Adam gently bites down on Jamie’s half-zipped zipper, tugging it down to the base. Unfettered, Jamie’s dick bobs up and gently slaps Adam’s chin. Adam’s hands tentatively grasps Jamie’s hips, and tries to catch Jamie’s dick in his mouth without the aid of touch, kinda like bobbing for apples. 

He licks his lips, couches his teeth beneath them, and captures Jamie’s dick. Taking it slow, he slides his lips down the length of the shaft, then back up in that excruciatingly slow pace. He does it again, this time flattening his tongue against the cylindrical surface making Jamie feel the hot and the wet and the texture. Because of the large circumference of Jamie’s dick, it’s difficult to maneuver his tongue around it, but Adam manages. His fingers bite deeper into Jamie’s thighs, and he kicks-up the pace. Jamie grunts, and rests his hands of Adam’s head. Thankfully, not dictating the cadence, but moving with it, like treading water in ocean swells. His fingers caress Adam’s scalp. And Adam hates himself for it, but it makes his body tingle from his spine. Somehow, this encourages him to try harder. He swirls his tongue around the cock in time with his bobbing up and down in a steady crescendo. Jamie’s thighs tenses in Adam’s hands, and Adam squeezes tighter for better purchase as Jamie moans low and husky, and dark and unformulated in the back of Adam’s head is smug satisfaction over having this kind of power over Jamie—or maybe he’s just equivocating because he needs to justify his masculinity even when he’s on his knees sucking Jamie’s dick.

But Jamie’s close. Adam’s right hand releases its grip, and his thumb and forefinger form a ring, pumping the shaft with greater rigidity than his mouth is capable of. Responding immediately, Jamie grunts, both hands leaving Adam’s head and slamming against the wall, as the primordial rhythm jerks his body erratically back and forth until all that Adam has to do is be a firm loop of friction for Jamie to fuck as he thrusts those final death-throes—one two THREE!

“Awgh!” the unthinking cry of vowels signals the final release in time with a hot jet of come squirting in Adam’s mouth like the flame trail shooting out of a rocket on ignition.

Jamie rests against the wall, panting and now Ad’s got to deal with the dormant lump of flesh lying dead on his tongue as well as the mucous-flavored come coating his Mouth. It’s not that bad, it’s like when he sucks snot in his mouth before hawking a loogie. He could spit it out, but there’s no trash bag in the wastepaper basket, and he really doesn’t want a dried come trail permanently stuck inside it, reminding him that he once gave Jamie head in this very room. And the bathroom’s on the other side of the shop, and he really doesn’t want to carry this load, precariously balanced on his tongue, all the way there, especially because someone’s going to want talk to him on the way. They always do. Deciding it would be most economical, he swallows then looks toward the mini fridge wondering if there’s a soda inside.

Jamie gathers himself, and pushes himself off of the wall.

“Not bad.” And of course he’s returned to his sardonic monotone. Adam wasn’t expecting tenderness. Actually, Adam would be creeped-out by tenderness, but he wanted at least of moment of softening in acknowledgment of the fact that Adam had just thrown himself fully into a blow job for him. Hell, Adam deserves more than that. He deserves an Oscar for that performance.

At least Adam knows that whenever Jamie gives him crap, and he always does, Adam has the smirking satisfaction of thinking, ‘I made you come.’ Then again, he’ll never have the satisfaction of actually using that fact as a weapon, because Jamie could always return, ‘you sucked my dick on your knees like a bitch.’ And Adam couldn’t really argue with that logic.

Adam realizes that he hasn’t pulled himself up from his kneeling position, and his knees hurt, and his lips are dead numb from the friction. Jamie looks at him quizzically.

“You swallow? I never took you for a faggot.”

Back-handed compliment, much?

With nothing to say, Adam just pushes past him and takes a Coke out of the fridge, picturing Jamie’s sperm wriggling futilely between his teeth.

Where’s the uterus?

I don’t know. We just passed the tonsils. 

He takes a drink, swishing the coke around his mouth, satisfied that he’s scorching the little bastards to death with phosphoric acid.

Jamie leaves.

Somehow, and this is also amongst the long list of things Adam refuses to admit to himself, he’s actually kinda hurt that Jamie didn’t acknowledge the hard work he’d put into it. He always does that. Just doesn’t appreciate Adam’s efforts.

Adam closes the door and twists the deadbolt locked, leaving himself in suffocating darkness. He sits at his desk, palms flat on the cool surface, the bitter aftertaste of Jamie’s come clinging to his tongue and cries, cries like his father told him not to, whispering Kari’s name in broken sobs again and again and again and Kari Kari Kari.


End file.
